


Burnt Offerings

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Betrayal, Bondage, Burnplay, Burns, Cigars, Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pain, Punishment, Torture, Touching, Treachery, Villains, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Zombie Apocalypse, sex with the enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best things are those that have risen from the ashes. Spoilers for S2M39.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt Offerings

“You haven't died yet. That _is_ impressive Runner Three. I'm rather pleased to see you looking so healthy.”

Simon twists his hands against the cuffs holding his arms and slowly raises his head to look at Van Ark. The man is an imposing figure in the doorway; black suit, still immaculate despite the apocalypse, the malevolent red of a lit cigar burning between his fingers. 

He licks his lips. “Yeah? That's why I'm here isn't it? Survival?”

His voice is a painful rasp; god his mouth his dry. His arms ache where they're held above his head, and his calves are aching from standing on tiptoe for so long. How long has it been? It feels like hours, but it can't be. Can't be that long. Abel would know something was wrong. _Jenny_ would realise something was wrong.

Van Ark smiles. “More than survival, I would hope. Anyone can survive. It takes someone with particular character to excel.”

“Aye well, I always did like exceeding expectations,” Simon replies. He sinks down from his toes as much as he can, and the chains clink and wrench his arms painfully. 

“Of course,” Van Ark says, and he approaches slowly, “there are still things to be tested. Many different treatments to administer.” He circles behind Simon, and he can smell the rich, sweet scent of the cigar. He's never known anything about cigars, more of a sneaky fag after church or after a shag kind of bloke, but it smells expensive. Man like Van Ark, he wouldn't expect anything else.

“Tell me, Runner Three, do you know how many nerve endings a square inch of human skin contains?”

Simon swallows, wants to twist to see the man behind him. “I don't get what that matte-” 

He screams when the tip of the cigar is pressed against his shoulder, white hot, the scent of burning flesh and brimstone filling his nose for a moment. The strength goes from his legs for a moment and he just hangs, cuffs digging into his wrists, cutting in.

Van Ark tsks disapprovingly and rests a hand against his hip, thick fingers curving against his skin, a touch at once clinical and possessive. Simon sucks in a harsh breath and catches his feet beneath him, pushing himself back onto tiptoes. The hand squeezes lightly, like you'd reassure a skittish animal.

“Thought you'd be a bit more scientific than that,” he grinds out, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He breathes through his mouth so he doesn't have to smell his own burnt skin. He hears the click of a lighter.

“I never saw the harm in mixing work and pleasure. Something tells me that you are the same Runner Three.”

Van Ark smooths his thumb over Simon's hip, and he's ready for it this time, when the cigar is ground into the thin skin over his hipbone. It doesn't make it hurt any less, but he can bite back the scream a little, and he keeps his legs beneath him at least, even if hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes and his breath hitches painfully.

Van Ark gives an approving hum and Simon feels lips at the nape of his neck, followed by teeth and tongue laving his skin. It's a pathetic distraction from the pain, but he clings to it gratefully.

“It has always taken great pain for humanity to advance,” Van Ark says, lips moving against his neck. “Pain is what drives evolution and you will be the next stage of human evolution.”

“I'm not gonna burn,” Simon mumbles, a mantra stuck in his mind since all of this had begun. Van Ark grazes his fingertip against the mark on his hip and Simon can feel the way his lips quirk upwards.

“Your burning will be what drives the future. Like a phoenix, if you will, although that hardly fits with your mythos, I confess. Pain greater than any for the sake of life unending. What greater pleasure could there be?”

Simon almost screams again when Van Ark's hand wraps around his cock, every inch feeling overly sensitive. Van Ark laughs, cool and amused, and gives a long, slow stroke. Simon's body quickens, desperate for some stimulation other than pain. Van Ark's hand is smoother than he'd expected, and strong, his grip firm as he strokes Simon' to hardness. 

“I do admire you Runners,” Van Ark says, fingers trailing a line down Simon's sweat-slick skin. “Putting your lives on the line, defying death. I doubt that most would ever have realised how much they were capable of before the apocalypse.”

His thumb flicks against the tip of Simon's cock, smears liquid there and Simon jerks against the chains; towards him, or away, he's not sure, it doesn't matter, he's all around.

“I-” he begins, breathless, groaning in time to another firm stroke, “I was always this hot,” he says, his laughter strained and awful. Barely human. It makes him laugh more.

“Perhaps,” Van Ark concedes, “but a body built in a gym can hardly compare to one built from necessity, from the fear of death. Ah, but perhaps you would know all about that, Runner Three.”

He's been running from it his entire life.

Van Ark presses flush against his back, rocks against him, the swell of his cock pressing against Simon's arse. Hand 'round his cock, wrapped against him, all around him and Simon loses himself, slowly surrendering to the way that Van Ark moves him, each rock of his hips and stroke of his hands. Simon's whimpers and moans, pathetic noises of supplication, of pleading, fill his ears. His mouth falls slack and open. 

A mechanical click, a flare of sickly sweet smoke.

The cigar burns between his shoulder blades.

Simon screams his release and comes.


End file.
